


Reverie

by wongbabo



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wongbabo/pseuds/wongbabo
Summary: A story about a man who’s trapped in a dream, and the savior who’s trapped in his feelings. The only way for them to safe each other is by building a trust--which they both have been trying to runaway from.





	1. 00

_“This is the only way for me to safe you. You have to wake up!”_  
_“But what if I don’t want to be saved?!”_

 

 _How much has to be explored and discarded before reaching the naked flesh of feeling._  
_**-Claude Debussy** _

 


	2. He Who Awakes In A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeon Wonwoo begins the day by waking up in the morning. But when the dark comes, a man says he's going to kill him.

“Gomi...Gomi-ya…”

The sun hasn’t risen yet when Jeon Wonwoo steps out of the house. He’s still wearing the pajama pants, a long sleeve shirt with loosened hems since he pulls them too much and often down to his fingers. The glasses hanging on his nose bridge keeps slipping to the tip, keeping him away from walking straight against the blurry vision. His bed hair sticks out to different directions, but it’s beyond his concern to appear presentable so early in the morning. He calls out the name again, with a bowl filled with wet cat food in one hand. The feline, an orange chubby tabby cat, is nowhere to be seen. It usually already waits at the back door of the building where Wonwoo is living, with its excited squeaky but short meow.

“Gomi-ya, your food is here,” he calls out once again, taking a quick trip to the front door of the store from the side alleway and to the back door several times. Right when the warm sunlight touches his toes, Wonwoo spots the cat waiting at the cement porch of the back door. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”

He puts the bowl on the ground after the cat greets him with a squeak, brushing its head gently against Wonwoo’s knuckles. The tail is straight up and twitches shortly. “Yes, good morning. It’s nice to see you too,” Wonwoo replies to Gomi’s body language. He gives it a stroke along the spine, noticing its coat is a little damp. It was raining yesterday so it might be running somewhere to find a shelter all night, he thinks.  Squatting down next to the feline, Wonwoo watches it eating vigorously before he can take the bowl back to the kitchen.

As the color of the sky is getting brighter and the warmth of the air touching his face, Wonwoo becomes more alive while hanging out with the cat in the back door. He watches it finishing the food, now brushing its face with the paw, until a sound of dull steps is heard behind him. Wonwoo turns around and a tall figure is standing few feet away before him. The light behind the man shuts his eyes, it’s hard to picture the face covered under the dark shadow. “Hello?” he calls out, standing up from the porch. “May I help you?”

The man doesn’t say anything. He takes a step back and walks away.

 

*

 

The coffee shop where Wonwoo lives is open around 10 am. He occupies the second floor to sleep and the kitchen on the first floor when he makes coffee at night. It’s an old building which is refurbished into industrial style with a tall open ceiling where you can see the construction beams, wires pinned to the wall and lamps hanging freely at the center of the room. Random designs of tables and chairs as personal collections of the old owner, a concrete floor and brick walls which has aged along with the time. The front door is accompanied by two windows on each side where all the sunlight comes in. The shop doesn’t look fancy from the outside, but the parlor inside serves a place to help the customers slowing down. The patrons are mostly young people coming over for a date or study, or mothers with their children taking a break from their daily tasks. It’s another weekday where there are not many customers coming over to take their caffeine intact. The part timers came before ten, helping Wonwoo preparing the tables and cleaning up the utensils. The room is clean and roasted coffee beans scented in the afternoon.

Wonwoo counts the date on the calendar, it’s the second Wednesday of March, where the weather is still cold but the spring has peeked through from the growing grass and flower buds waking up from their sleep. But he doesn’t contemplate on the temperature, but the old florist man who opens the store two blocks away from the shop. It’s time for him to come over, offering a new plant in a pot to liven up the room. Green is the symbol of life, Wonwoo recalls the quote. And from what he has discovered, the shop does need some retouch on that side. Funny how it displays dullness now, because it’s not what Wonwoo remember the last time he looks around the room.

He checks the time on his wrist from behind the counter, double checking the clock on the wall. The light ding coming from the front door strikes exactly on 12 pm. But instead of the florist man, a young man walks in and steals Wonwoo’s attention. He is huge, at least 6 feet tall. A tanned skin dressed in casual clothes, raven hair with messy fringe stops right under his eyebrows. His face features are prominent, and it would be dishonest if he’s not considered attractive.

Wonwoo snaps himself out from getting awestruck. “Welcome. May I take your order?” he systematically asks.

The man stays quiet, their eyes meet in silence. Wonwoo’s stomach feels tight, as if someone is gripping his abdomen and twisting it.

“One espresso, please,” he says afterward.

Wonwoo rings up the order. “And what’s your name?”

The man doesn’t answer right away, yet again. As if he’s a machine, processing the question and pondering on the right response to say. “Mingyu. Kim Mingyu,” he answers.

Wonwoo writes down the name and instructs him to wait on the next counter. After few minutes, he comes back with a hot cup of espresso and hands it to Kim Mingyu. The man thanks him in a soft voice and takes over a table next to the window. He sits down, placing the cup on the center, giving Wonwoo a look before he turns his attention to the view outside. Kim Mingyu stays there for hours, in the same position, not touching his coffee at all.

*

It’s strange.

The night has come hours after the sunset, but the Kim Mingyu man hasn’t budged from his seat. Moreover, he has not touched the drink, not even once. It’s still there on the table, a flat cold surface. He still looks out the window, watching the traffic and people moving through the window sill. They are five minutes to closing time, and Wonwoo hates to do end it with a cup still full of the beverage. It’s an insult to his skill, and a waste of coffee beans. On some days, it’s plausible to close the shop later than their regular schedule. But on a weekday where not many patrons come for a drink, he doesn’t make exception for one or two people. Furthermore, for one person remaining in the room, who doesn’t even bother to touch the drink a barista has prepared for them.

The staffs are already on their way home, half of the lights are already off. The music playing through the speaker has soften. Wonwoo taps his fingers against the counter, he can’t wait any longer. He grunts, ready to shoo the man away. But before Wonwoo reaches the table, Kim Mingyu stands up and turns around. He stands still, arms on his sides. His eyes locked on Wonwoo’s, the same emotionless eyes Wonwoo saw earlier that day. Somehow it makes him nervous that he can’t continue his stride toward Kim Mingyu.

A car passing by the shop in that moment, flashing the bright light behind Kim Mingyu. The view resembles the figure of a man Wonwoo witnessed that morning, the man in the alley. “Wait...do I know you?” Wonwoo asks, unsure. There are so many questions in his head. “...Did you come to the shop this morning?”

Kim Mingyu stays silent. He takes the steps Wonwoo didn’t make to meet Mingyu at his table. The closer he is to Wonwoo, the taller he looks. Wonwoo’s heartbeat has reached his eardrums.

“Jeon Wonwoo, this is enough,” the man says. “It’s getting too vivid and too deep than before. At this point, you will never be able to wake up. I really have no other choice but to ‘kill’ you. I don’t want to do this, though.”

“Excuse me?!” Wonwoo doesn’t understand anything he just said.

Kim Mingyu takes out a plastic bag from his pocket and undoes it following every fold. “This is not gonna hurt. I promise.”


	3. He Who Catches In A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living a life as a Catcher doesn’t give him many chances to make a vital decision, until he met Jeon Wonwoo.

Whenever Kim Mingyu visits The Jeon Family resident, the hallway where he usually waits during their appointment is always be his favorite room. It’s an alley not bigger than 2 meters wide, with one side of the walls covered in wooden planks, scrupulously designed where you can’t figure out where the edge of each board, where it ends and where it begins. It’s polished every year, and always look brand new. In one part of the wall, there are shelves of trophies and winning certificates of music championship, particularly on classical piano competitions. The name Jeon Wonwoo is written in every placards and papers, naming him as the winner of each competition. Some frames of a child growing up into an awkward teenager with dorky glasses, to a grim young man, with unchanging bony fingers and body structure. Mingyu is not aware of Jeon Wonwoo’s music career until he met him two years ago, from the charity gala he attended with his father. Moreover, he is uninformed about how influential The Jeon Family is in the music industry. Even though they are not actively involved in the pop music scene, Mingyu heard Jeon Wonwoo’s father is a higher up, well-respected person in the music association and had done nothing but good things in the past. He is the much older and warmer version of Jeon Wonwoo. Their first meeting hasn’t left Mingyu’s mind ever since they shook hands after Jeon Wonwoo’s piano performance, what a contradictive appearance between a father and the son. 

On the other hand, Mingyu doesn’t have a knack for music and interest to study it further. Rather than art, sport would be the better field Mingyu could advance to, even go as far as being a professional athlete for his career if he wanted to. He had received some offers in the past, a full scholarship of prestigious colleges which he could simply point one and a seat would be reserved for him. Yet, those chances had turned into dust since Mingyu woke up and unsealed the pure talent he inherited from generations before him. Being the first child and the son in the family, it is something he can’t reject. He left behind the sport dream, and pursued another major instead, following what his father sternly suggested. 

And now, he ends up at Jeon Wonwoo’s hallway. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Sir.” 

Mingyu turns around. “No, it’s fine,” he says to the head butler, Mr. Choi, an elder in his formal suit. His hair has turned grey and faded to white at some spots, back slightly slouching because of his age, with big eyes that seems running in The Choi Family. “I like to look through these shelves first whenever I come here anyway, so I could kill some time with the family history, even though it’s just a speck of all.”

Mr. Choi pulls a fatherly smile. He moves closer and stands next to Mingyu, eyeing the framed certificates which he dusts off every morning before any householders are awake. “The house used to be so lively with the piano playing every afternoon. But ever since our Young Master has gotten his condition, it’s...as quiet as the graveyard. It’s unfortunate, and to what happen to him too. He’s an excellent pianist. I’ve worked with this family for decades and I have to say,” the head maid elbows Mingyu. “I like Young Master’s play rather than his father. The sound he produced was so delicate, not as elegant as our Master’s but it has its own charm. I guess it’s because of my age and my old ears. I favor mellow sounds more than when I was younger.

Many predicted that Young Master would just replicate his father’s excellence, so it was quite a surprise when he could voice out his own color. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to take music seriously. He often locked himself in the library when he was younger, reading all those books. But our Master broke the safe shell and polished him into an artist. I don’t know if that’s a bless or just a pure coincidence. Though, you can’t cheat talents when it’s already inside you, can you?”

Mingyu just nods to the rhetorical question. 

“Did you hear anything from Seungcheol this week?” Mr. Choi changes the topic, to break the silence that fills in the room for few seconds. 

“I’m afraid not. Last time he texted me he’s in Hong Kong for some business,” he answers.

Since the old man is wearing such a nice suit, at times Mingyu forgets he’s also the grandfather of his childhood friend. They agree to speak formally to one another when they’re inside The Jeon’s residence, but there are times when Mr.Choi takes off his butler mask for a moment, to speak like how a grandfather would talk to their grandchild. 

Mingyu and Seungcheol were in soccer team back in junior high up to high school, until Mingyu was forced to quit after he injured his leg during the game. They go to different path ever since then. None of them turn into an athlete, as Seungcheol wanted to fulfill his dream to become a traveler. Mingyu heard this stories of Seungcheol’s grandfather left the school for a year to travel around the country with his bike, which seemed the biggest motivation for Seungcheol to do the same. What a foolish, was the only thing Mr.Choi said when Seungcheol announced his lack of interest to study in college. 

The old man sighs and doesn’t say anything afterward, putting the butler mask back on his face. The conversation about the grandchild has never ended in a cheery note, and Mingyu is mindful enough to know where he should stand as a casual bystander. It has always been his role, whether it’s a family matter or relationship with other people, where he can stay in a neutral side without having to pick sides. Many call him meek because of that, but Mingyu just doesn’t want to deal any with confrontation. Living a life as a Catcher doesn’t give him much chances to make a vital decision, until he met Jeon Wonwoo. He is the first life Kim Mingyu has put a desire to rescue. Someone else could’ve taken his role, but he just can’t let it go. Mingyu doesn’t understand it himself. Something about Jeon Wonwoo resonates to him. 

“How is Young Master’s progress so far?” Mr. Choi throws the question as they’re climbing up the staircase, up to the second floor where Wonwoo’s room is located. “I have asked Master about it, but he didn’t say much.”

“He fell into a deeper stage of sleeping again. It was almost hard to pull him back up,” Mingyu explains, although he notices the words are not enough for Mr. Choi to understand. “You see, when we’re asleep, there are different stage of sleep from light to deep sleep, and then the REM stage. REM is what we call being ‘awake’ in our sleep, where the dream becomes more vivid. And in this case, Wonwoo’s REM stage is more than what we call normal. It lasts so long, and his dream was more complicated than other client I’ve ever met. Last time, he dreamt about working in the cafe and playing with a cat. The environment was so distinct that I was taken aback by how lifelike it was.”

“...A cafe? Like a coffee shop?” 

Mingyu is stunned. “...Yes. Do you by chance know how Wonwoo can associate himself with it?” 

Mr. Choi nods, walking along with Mingyu toward the door at the end of the alley. “When he was very young, his grandfather-the former Master-took him under his care because Young Master’s parents traveled a lot for the tour. He lived outside of the town and owned this antique cafe he operated himself. The former Master really adored him, and might be the only one who against the idea of our Young Master pursued the music career. But, Young Master was so young back then. He could be around 3 to 4 years old? How come he still recall such memory, when he could barely remember anything?”

“Did he never visit that cafe anymore?” Mingyu asks.

“The last time might be when his grandfather passed away. We took care of the funeral, but the building had been sold by then.” As they reach the door, Mr. Choi turns on the knob and walks in first into the room, followed by Mingyu. “But I can’t recall we visited the site. We went home right after the ceremony was over.”

There is a queen size bed in the center of the room, next to the window that opens up to the courtyard. Jeon Wonwoo is lying down, as quiet as a corpse. His breathing barely can be seen unless you stay still watching him. It’s a soft and light exhale, a stiff body as if it’s paralyzed. Mingyu walks closer and drags a chair to sit down next to the bed. The man who is asleep looks clean, with a faint scent of soap coming under his pajamas. His bony arms are defenseless, lying next to each side of his body. Mingyu reaches out and holds Wonwoo’s hand. It doesn’t distribute warmth, yet it’s not cold. His mien doesn’t represent any sadness or anger, unlike the other time when Mingyu made a visit. It’s just like a child, taking a long, long nap. “Some people dream about particular spaces when they’re sleeping. It can be a foreign place, or a location coming from a childhood memory. It happens to me sometimes, too. It says that where the dream takes place is a symbol of one’s state and life. If I knew the history beforehand, maybe...I could’ve helped him with a better method. I might have destroyed a precious childhood memories,” Mingyu mutters, rubbing the back of Wonwoo’s hand gently.

“What did you do to him in that dream?” Mr. Choi asks. 

“I killed him,” Mingyu answers, “in his dream.” His voice sounds more distant, as he realized that he might have done something wrong. _No, Mingyu knew it was wrong_. “But that’s just because...no, I shouldn’t make any excuses--Shoot, I might be in trouble. Dad’s not gonna like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops somehow I've mentioned a new character :)


	4. The Firstborns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mingyu was just thirteen, he discovered the hidden family secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, this chapter is kind of absurd. Let me know if I should describe more of how his ability functions.

There was a room in Mingyu’s house which he had not been able to step into. Not because of superstitious reason or how wrecked the room was, but simply his father didn’t allow him to. Not particularly Mingyu, but also his little sister and mother. They couldn’t enter the room unless his father opened the door for them. He was super strict keeping what’s inside to himself that whenever he’s in and out of the room, he never forgot to lock and unlock it back, preventing any household member to enter. Even Mingyu witnessed his mother had to knock the door before it was opened with a small gap, that she had to get in one step at a time.

This opened secret right before his eyes turned Mingyu into growing some wild vision on what his father was doing whenever he was in the ‘work room’. He could be an international spy or even an assassin who killed people every Friday night, for all he knew. The TV had been reporting on brutal crimes which didn’t help Mingyu to brush off the thought about his father. He was a quiet man, to begin with, working on his 9 to 5 job with little to no complaint. He never explained his job in the first place, even though Mingyu had visited his office before to deliver a document his father left behind. What he knew was his father was a licensed therapist, helping people--individually or even as a couple--to solve their mental problems. Mingyu had never asked what kind of job he specifically did, but it looked like it was not an exciting one as he barely talked about it. The conversation during their dinner was mostly about school and a repeat of what the news had reported, but not a single word about his patient. Mingyu assumed his father just wanted to be ethical since bringing up someone else’s household problem might kill one’s appetite. They were not a gossipy family, after all.

But on the age of thirteen, the door was open for Mingyu and he was finally welcomed inside.

It was late at night when Mingyu was shaken awake in his bed. Through his heavy eyes, he saw his father sitting on the edge of the bed, patting on Mingyu’s arm. “Son, please wake up,” he commanded in a soft voice. “I need to talk to you. And hurry up before we hit midnight.”

Mingyu was still rubbing his eyes as he dropped his feet on the floor. His father already waited at the doorway, which Mingyu reluctantly followed out of his room. 

Being a teenager himself, there was a rule in the house where the kids shouldn’t sleep later than 10 PM, even on the weekend. Some of his friends made fun of Mingyu when he told them this, but he didn’t find it wise to rebel against his parents as they suggested it. Besides, he didn’t see the point of going against his parents’ will since Mingyu liked to sleep. He could rest himself well after a long day of school, instead of staying up late at night to binge study like others. But to this habit, it felt unfamiliar to wander around the house so late at night. It was quieter than usual, Mingyu noticed, as the walked through the living room before they reached the secret door. He could hear the buzzing sound coming from the fridge and a dim machine of cars passing by the neighborhood. The light of the night penetrated through the curtains, dividing the room into shadows and textured surfaces. 

His father was waiting at the door, cueing Mingyu to hurry up. Nervousness grew in his stomach when Mingyu saw the workroom was open. He stood there for a while, didn’t know what to do. “Come in,” his father addressed, opening the door leaf wider so his son had clear access to the hidden place. “Sit down.” He pointed at the sofa, made of fine leather and wooden frame. Mingyu took his first step and the floor was cold. The room was plainer than what he expected. It was just a replica of his father’s office in the different building he visited before. It had the same earthy tone, full of wooden pieces of furniture in dark colors, stacks of books in every corner of the work desk. Bookshelves were as tall as the ceiling, a faint fragrance of flowers was in the air, which the bushes from the garden could be seen through the window from behind the desk. Mingyu sat down and they faced each other in silence for a while. 

“So, how are you feeling?” his father began.

“Sleepy.”

“That’s normal.” He got up and walked to the desk. “Before I forgot, there’s something I would love you to receive.” The sound of the drawer being pulled open, wood against wood, was loud. He closed it back and returned to the position he sat down on before. “Here. Happy birthday.”

Mingyu accepted a small box wrapped in a blue paper, neatly folded. He tucked on the tape and revealed a velvety blue box in his hand. “Oh, it’s a wristwatch,” Mingyu said, as he opened the box. It was a vintage watch with a leather strap, the rim was gold in color. It was an old design, more on the simple style than a luxurious one. The hands were still working well, down to the seconds. Mingyu had seen the item before, which was his father’s wrist. “Cool.”

“You don’t like it?” His father questioned. To him, it didn’t seem like Mingyu was pleased with the present.

“No! I like it. I know this is the watch you’ve treasured. You showed it to me before, and it used to belong to Grandpa. I thought you didn’t want to pass it on me?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to give it to you. I was waiting for the right time,” he explained, leaning in to help Mingyu wearing the watch. It was still rather loose, but it would fit nicely once Mingyu grew up some more. 

“And tonight is the right time?”

His father turned silent for a moment. Mingyu thought he offended the old man for a moment until his father continued on. “Son, do you know the difference between reality and a dream?” 

Mingyu shook his head. 

“A reality is when the time is ticking. And in a dream, it’s not. Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure where we’re going from this…” Mingyu muttered, noticing his father’s mien had turned serious. 

He turned his head to the clock on the wall, then faced Mingyu again. The time was 12 o’clock at night. “From now on, I’m counting on you to take responsibility of yourself. For the sake of our family. Once you go to sleep after this, you need to tell me the most vivid dream you experience in the morning. It might not be the greatest dream you’ve ever seen or not even the worst, but it will be the start of the onus you have to carry for the rest of your life.”

The more his father talked, the more confused Mingyu had become. “My onus?--Dad, I don’t understand everything you just said. What kind of responsibility?”

“We’re the special kind, Mingyu-ya,” he put a hand on Mingyu’s neck, making his head steady to listen without interruption. “We’re the kind of people who can travel into dreams. But not everyone in the family can do that, it’s just you and me. For some reason, only the male firstborn who inherits the power. There are some odd cases where a female can use the ability, but not many. I think I have a distant cousin who has such power, but she died young. Since you hit your puberty now, it has started now. 

The first two weeks might be rough since your power becomes active. And there might be things you can’t understand, that’s why I’m here. I will teach you everything you need to control your power, so you don’t harm others and yourself. There are some histories you need to know about our lineage, especially on my side. And to learn them all, you need to adjust your schedule for this. There are things you need to give up on in near future, but...you just have to be patient about it.”

If anything, Mingyu rather listened to his father confessed about being an assassin than this vague information. At least he could have two clear options, whether he called the police or kept the secret forever and be part of the crime. But the man didn’t give him any choices, to begin with. He just had to accept it, even though questions whirled in his head.

In the morning, just like what his father had warned, Mingyu woke up hours later drenched in sweat. The room was spinning when he opened his eyes, he felt like throwing up. But aside from the body collision, things Mingyu saw in his dream had never been as distinct as before. As if he was awake, he found himself walking in the school corridor, dark and cold. The sky was red outside and the end of the hallway lacked light. He kept moving forward, for some reason and stopped when a figure was sitting on the floor, hugging their legs close to their chest. That person was weeping lowly, the back facing Mingyu. He called out, the person turned around. It was his little sister. When their eyes met, she began to scratch her arms fervently to the point red marks formed on her fair skin. Then she pressed her hands on each ear, and grumbling sound heard through the walls. At first, the words were incoherent in a low rumbling voice, but later on, it became louder and louder. Mingyu heard every cuss words and death threats rebounded from wall to wall. His sister was screeching.

When he entered the dining room to have his breakfast, the atmosphere was peaceful per usual. His father had finished his breakfast and read the newspaper, his little sister was still consuming the remaining of her breakfast. Mingyu, who was in his school uniform, put on his jacket and casually muttered a question. “Minseo-ya, are you being bullied in school?”

His sister dropped the chopsticks she was holding as it rolled down with a low clink. She petrified on her seat with fists tight on the table. Mingyu’s father gave him a stern look, the newspaper already refolded back neatly.  _ Good job,  _ Mingyu read his mouth.


	5. The Broken Pianist (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
> 
> But Jeon Wonwoo doesn't like being an apple that much.

**_Christmas Gala, 2017_ **

Jeon Wonwoo was settling in the dressing room alone, wiping off some fingerprints on the lenses of his glasses. There was not much dirt to begin with, but rubbing the clear surface with a piece of fabric calmed his nerve for a bit. Wonwoo held onto the rim in one hand, only to smear another spot on the outermost of the clear surface. His hands couldn’t stop sweating, his fingertips were cold. The wrist of his right arm felt tight still, still it was nobody’s concern but himself. Not including his parents for holding up the annual charity gala, under the name of his father’s music association. Wonwoo just finished his national tour when the news of the event reached his ears. 

“The guests have started flooding in,” one of his father’s assistants in the room said. She was standing next to the door frame, assigned to look after Wonwoo while his father was greeting the guests at the main hall. The annual event took place in a bigger hall this time, as Mr. Jeon’s network had expanded and reached more valuable investors for his organization. He precisely told Wonwoo to stay in the dressing room, getting himself ready before his piano performance. _Of course they would love to watch a stage of the national champion of this year,_ Wonwoo repeated the words in his head; despite dropping the warning to his father that his wrist had been throbbing for days. It could be just him throwing tantrum to avoid the social event, Wonwoo had to presume, as he preferred to stay at home and took a 12 hours nap. “Wonwoo-ssi, we’ll leave in 30 minutes,” the assistant lady talked to his back. 

Wonwoo heaved. He looked up, staring at the reflection of himself in the mirror: a gaunt face of a young man, as if the life had been sucked out of him without having a chance to preserve what's once his own. Droopy eyes and lips as straight as the cold horizon, slick brunette hair neatly combed. A neck so thin that there was still enough gap between his nape and the tall collar of his suit. His pulsating wrist.

Wonwoo was not full of life to be there, but he had to be. Ever since he was a child, his parents had emphasize the importance of family values, and how they were perceived by the outsiders. Growing up in a house where his talent was nurtured for seven days a week, thicken fingertips against the piano keys for hours, changing the grand piano two times and filling up the shelves with national competition trophies, nothing less than being number one. Polished by the competitive nature and pride, Jeon Wonwoo is no longer three syllables name that slip through one’s mouth without any compliment. He was mere known to be a younger version of his father, carrying his father’s legacy through his fingertips.

It had never interfered with his conscious when he was younger. People admired him on the surface, observing him through the glass walls, untouchable, intriguing with mystery. Yet it was all shallow until none of them ever tried to break in, to see who he really was. Being the only heir of his father’s talent was reciprocal with loneliness. His father’s desire to be seen by the world put Wonwoo in an invisible cage, which could only be seen by Wonwoo himself. Wonwoo was put out for the war and the price, while his father was aging, accompanied by fingers that were no longer steady because of Parkinsons, diagnosed early that year. The golds which were used to hypnotize people with its magic were weakened with time, nobody was able to stop its deteriorating state. Wonwoo took the talent over, a discovery that was more precious than a stack of books in his room, at least for his family. 

He rubbed his wrist and stood up. Wonwoo wore his glasses and followed the lady out of the room. 

As the door swung open, the silence that surrounded him blasted into the festivity that embed Wonwoo in an instant. The golden chandelier was hanging on the high ceiling. Windows as tall as two stories floor let the view of the night sky in, adding a gallant atmosphere into the room. Golden and red ribbons were hanging, sparkling whenever the light hit the surface. The round tables were scattered in front of the stage, covered in velvet tablecloths and ceramic plates. The piano, right at the center of the stage, was gleaming with light. 

Wonwoo was taken aback by ambience for a moment, as he could feel his heart racing. But before he was lost in a sea of people, a man who spotted Wonwoo from afar beckoned him to walk closer. He shared similar features as him, shorter and older, and more stubborn. Nobody could say no against what he wanted. “There you are,” Mr. Jeon addressed his son and rubbed Wonwoo’s back in the most artificial way. It sent shivers along Wonwoo’s spine. “What took you so long to come out of the room? Many of our guests wanted to meet you.”

“Sorry.” As if a few sentences had been programmed inside of him, it was one of the default measure Wonwoo often muttered whenever Mr. Jeon felt Wonwoo acted against his demand, no matter how insignificant it was. It could be a lie, it could be the truth. Both didn’t matter as long as Wonwoo gave him an answer. “I was warming up my hands.”

Mr. Jeon gave Wonwoo a stern look, so subtle that the guests who were standing before them couldn’t catch the change on his mien. He noticed the tense and distance from how flat Wonwoo’s words were. “Right. Anyways. Remember whenever I told you about this doctor friend of mine--”

“Therapist.” The old guy next to Wonwoo’s father leaned in and corrected him. 

_Therapist? What kind of agenda you’re trying to pull right now, father?_

“Exactly,” Mr. Jeon added. “This is Mr. Kim, a dear friend of mine. And his son, Mingyu.”

The older man offered Wonwoo a hand. His grip was firm but welcoming, there was no sense of intimidation or fake admiration. As if he had prepared himself to meet Wonwoo. He pulled a gentle smile where the wrinkles were formed on the corner of his lips, but it didn’t erase the handsome features on his face. He was fit for his age, which Wonwoo assumed he was as old as his father from the familiarity Mr.Jeon showcased before his eyes. He had an upright stance, which only enhanced his height. 

But when Wonwoo locked eyes with the young man next to Mr. Kim, the certain impression of the man--that he looked great for an adult in his 50s--was multiplied beyond compare that his brain could barely process the appearance of his son. Wonwoo had never lifted up his chin to look at someone before, and the young man might be at least a head taller than him. He was dressed in a slim fit suits, basic white shirt and a black tie, keeping his appearance humble among the more important guests who had filled up the room. Aside from his high nose bridge, none of his facial features were more prominent than the other, but they were come together pleasantly to form an attractive face. He tugged a grin just like his father, holding out a hand for Wonwoo to return with a handshake. It radiated a different kind of strength compared to his father, but no sense of pretentious at all. Wonwoo spotted the canine tooth inside his mouth. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kim Mingyu.”

“I hope you will enjoy the event, Mingyu,” Mr. Jeon filled in the conversation, masking his face with the most amiable smile Wonwoo had ever seen. 

“I hope so too. I’ve never been to a gala before.”

“Do you feel overwhelmed?”

“A little bit. But I’m sure what I’m feeling will disappear once I watch your performance, Sir.”

Mr. Jeon threw a look to Mingyu’s father, who only smiled at his son’s little banter. He loved the confidence the young man had presented, Wonwoo noticed. “You raise your son well. He knows how to talk.”

 _Was that an indirect jab at me?_ Wonwoo wondered.

“You should credit his mother for that,” Mr. Kim said.

“But too bad, son, I don’t do anything this year. I’m not in my best condition. But Wonwoo here will take my place tonight.” He rested his arm on Wonwoo’s shoulder, petting it once. It made Wonwoo feel so uncomfortable. “We may have a different style, but I’m sure his talent will be enough to entertain us all.”

“I’ve never heard your son playing before. I’m looking forward to it.” The kind words coming from Mr. Kim didn’t make things easier for Wonwoo at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update! This arc will be divided into two chapters because I think there's more to add during the event :)


	6. The Broken Pianist (2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To his father, Wonwoo is a disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ Reposting this chapter because after pondering over it for weeks and weeks, the conclusion of this scene was shorter than I expected to be put on Chapter 7, so I decided to merge it here. Apologize to those who already read this chapter, there are additional paragraphs included. 
> 
> \+ Trigger Warning! for a slight abuse and depressive scene -- I feel the need to include this just in case it's a sensitive topic for anyone. 
> 
> \+ Music Reference:  
> [Nocturne in C Minor Op.48 No.1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSAwZP8e-zQ) by Frederick Chopin and [Clair De Lune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3u4pQ4WKOk) by Claude Debussy, both played brilliantly by Cho Seong Jin.

Once the invitees filled in the ballroom, they were led to the banquet hall where the tables were set for a fine dining event. The guests’ names were printed on the card placed and paired with the matching numbers of the seats, arranged carefully for them to comfortably socialize with each other. The recorded classical music was playing in the background, buried under the loud murmurs of people. The chandelier above was sparkling whenever the light hit it, which Wonwoo sure could make him high if he stared at it for too long. He squeezed his throbbing wrist with the other hand when his family took over the round table next to the stage, where the grand piano of Steinway & Sons was placed right before his eyes. The spotlight beamed its sparkly black lid, a solid wooden piece which nooks had been dusted off meticulously before the door was open to the public. The older men and women in his group sat down, followed by the young men; who were only Wonwoo and the new acquaintance from the Kim family on the table. They sat down next to each other, feeling self-conscious of the other's presence but didn’t know how to start a conversation.

Mr. Jeon who was placed on Wonwoo’s right side elbowed the young man’s arm and pointed at Mingyu who was observing the atmosphere with his chin. Mingyu kept a cool mien, but Wonwoo noticed his eyes were wildly going through every movement that interested him as if he was taken to an amusement park for the first time.

 _Talk to him_ , Mr. Jeon mouthed.

 _Why?_ Wonwoo replied.

Upon his son talking back to him, Mr. Jeon gave Wonwoo a stern look. He repeated the order, which only got on Wonwoo’s nerves even more. He dilly-dallied by wiping off the non-existent dust on his glasses until Mingyu turned his head to face Wonwoo and stole the initiative.

“Congratulations on winning the national championship,” Mingyu broke the silence between them. “...Which was, 3 months ago, as I was informed. My father said it even made it to the news.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” Wonwoo replied shortly.

“So, what are you going to play tonight?”

“Nocturne in C minor Op. 48 No. 1 by Frederick Chopin and Mozart’s Piano Sonata--” Wonwoo noticed the blankness in Mingyu’s eyes when he merely answered the question. He had to press his lips together, forbid himself to not laugh at Mingyu clueless reaction. “You don’t know them, do you?”

“Yeah…” he said, showing a bashful smile. “I’m not familiar with classical music at all. I’m sorry. I should’ve educated myself before coming here but I didn’t know where to start.”

Wonwoo shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

Then their conversation ended.

A man in a white tuxedo appeared on stage, clearing his throat close to the microphone he was holding. His hair was in silver color, combed slick. He tried to pull a smile but the stiff face forbid him to do so. When he opened his mouth to speak, a thunderous voice stole everyone’s attention. His tone was clear and loud, which emphasized his professionalism in the public speaking field. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the night of the Seoul Music Association Annual Charity Gala! I’m your host for today, I feel so honored to be here after the director made a personal call a few weeks ago.” The MC exchanged gaze with Wonwoo’s father as they passed a nod to each other, showing their mutual respect and gratitude. “This is such a special year because Seoul Music Association will celebrate its 20 years anniversary soon, so I was not surprised when I heard the event would be held in a bigger venue. It deserves to be celebrated. The music itself needs to be celebrated. Also, we have a special guest who is joining us tonight, no one else but Director Jeon’s own son, a caliber musician of our younger generation, Jeon Wonwoo. I would like to congratulate you for winning the national competition, young man.”

Wonwoo got up from his chair, surrounded by supportive cheering from the audience.

“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say this, but rumors said he’s preparing for the International Chopin Piano Competition next year, so good luck to you, Wonwoo-ssi! Is it possible for us to hear what you’ve been saving for the competition, though?” the man teased Wonwoo, who was unprepared to answer the challenge. “I’m just kidding. I don’t mean to put pressure on you! But it’s true he is going to give us a short performance, showing off his extraordinary talent! By using this gorgeous piano, exclusively being set for our talented pianist, we will soon be convinced why he is the top in the classical genre, in case anyone is unaware of this fact yet (Wonwoo sided eye Mingyu, who listened to the MC intently). But before we go to that part of the event, let’s have our Director and the association's representative to formally open the gala--”

Each of the core members of the association alternately gave their speech for the night, which only made Wonwoo more nervous knowing he had to step up to the stage soon. He squeezed his hand, trying to overcome the tension he felt physically and mentally. Mingyu checked on Wonwoo from the corner of his eye and nudged his arm in a gentle touch. “Good luck,” he whispered. It twisted Wonwoo’s gut for a bit. Mostly because of the fact that he had to present his years of technical practice and experience, but Mingyu’s gleaming big eyes sent different vibes into his stomach.

Once his father finished giving his part of speech, the MC called out Wonwoo. A round of applause accompanied Wonwoo’s walk to the stage. As the piano got closer, he could feel his heart thumping harder the further he took his steps toward it. Wonwoo pivoted by his sole toward the attendees and gave them a respectful bow before heading to his chair. The wooden lid of the piano was already opened, displaying the shining keys of black and white. He sat down and adjusted the height of his seat. The room eventually turned quiet as he was getting ready to play the first piece. Wonwoo took a deep breath, counted to three while his fingertips were ready to dance against the keys’ surface.

As Wonwoo started on the first few notes, Mingyu couldn’t take his eyes and ears away from the young pianist, as if he was bewitched by the fluency of his fingertips, a continuous play of flawless beauty of the melodious peace. At times Wonwoo added more pressure to the keys, another moment he went delicate like a feather floating in the air. The change of pace tightened his stomach, yet he was dragged to a mellow atmosphere when Wonwoo hit the melancholy keys. As if he was swayed in his slumber, in a deep forest opened up to the beauty of the stars. It was intriguing and powerful, yet the somber notes melted down the tension in his body. What a great technique, Mingyu said to himself. His blindness against classical music might have given him the advantage to enjoy the performance without any judgment. Because pure art would always find a way to touch someone’s heart. 

Wonwoo pulled his hands away from the key once he played the last note of the music piece. Half of the audience stood up from their seats and flooded the room with a vigorous round of applause. Some chanted his name, cheering for his brilliance. From the corner of his eyes, Wonwoo witnessed the wide smile on his father’s face. He looked away by pretending to wipe the sweat off his forehead, which only put his stressed hand in the spotlight. Playing a Chopin’s piece for a starter was a bad idea, after all, Wonwoo perceived. His meek nature had pushed Wonwoo to edge: the intense finger works and pace only strained his wrist even more. He could feel his hand became stiff, it hurt to make the slightest move. There was no way he could finish playing the next piece without injuring himself, but going down the stage after one song would denote a perfect defeat. Wonwoo had to improvise. 

Wonwoo looked around to spot the MC and hailed at him, asking for a mic. He subtly hid his hand between his legs while reaching for the device with his left hand. “Good evening, everyone,” Wonwoo started. His father couldn’t hide the surprised face when his son prompted a speech. “First of all, I would like to thank each one of you for attending this event. As you may know, this occasion is annually held to bring awareness to some public concern, mostly on health and educational issues. Yet, I’m merely here to serve you some entertainment only. To play a song that flaunts my degree as a musician, to give you a peek of how I was nurtured as the son of the director. And it was okay, I don’t mind. But I hope each one of us will be evolved to be the better version of ourselves. To escape from the cage that might have restrained us from our own freedom. Just so you know, if I continued on the mindset to impress you, I would leave permanent damage on myself, and I don’t want that.”

The crowd began to murmur their concern, and Mr. Jeon was not fond of how the atmosphere shifted. Not one bit.

“So instead of insisting on Mozart’s Piano Sonata, I would like to dedicate this moment to play my most favorite piece of composition. A song that I listened at night before the child me going to bed. A song that I was willing to learn because it’s also my mother’s favorite. When my mother became terribly ill last year, we listened to this piece and cried together. This is Clair De Lune, by Claude Debussy. This is my heart in melodies.”

After he handed back the microphone to the MC, Wonwoo returned to face the piano. He looked down at the keys, taking a deep breath, giving his injured hand a gentle stroke. Laying his fingertips on the correct keys, he began to demonstrate the magic. It was a contrasting tune compared to what Wonwoo represented earlier; an exquisite calmness of the night as if they were taking a stroll under the moonlight. There was no burst of climax energy and suspense transferred from his fingertips, only mellow tones embracing the crowd that tenderly carried them to the very ending. 

The room was embodied in the tranquil mood once Wonwoo finished his piece of art. The applause eventually bloomed within the audience as if they were taking their time to go back to reality. Wonwoo stood up and gave his courteous stance before leaving the stage. As he walked back to his seat, his mother was already standing up with open arms. She took her son into a tight and motherly hug, passing her gratitude to celebrate their little childhood memories which Wonwoo bore so courageously.  Even so, he knew he was not out of trouble when Wonwoo caught his father’s eyes, fuming with anger. Wonwoo let go of his mother and meant to go back to his seat when Mr. Jeon grasped his arm. “We need to talk,” he said, in a cold tone which was familiar to Wonwoo whenever his father was displeased by his action. Wonwoo surrendered in that anger and followed where Mr. Jeon was taking him. 

They found a quiet alley behind the kitchen, far from anyone’s sight in the ballroom. It was somewhat dark that it was rather hard Wonwoo to read his father’s mien. He was at least sure Mr. Jeon was not happy with his impromptu performance, which included the sentimental number dedicated to Wonwoo’s mother. To Mr. Jeon, excellence didn’t require an emotional touch. It had to be a precise and calculative technique. To Wonwoo’s knowledge, his father wouldn’t take the least bit of flaw. Because a flaw indicated weakness and weakness could be used against Wonwoo by his rivals. 

“For the last ten years, I have trained you to play the instrument, just so you could be my successor. I have never once preached about the importance of sentiment. What the hell did you do just now?!” Mr. Jeon gritted his teeth, his low voice sounded like a growl. “Are you trying to rebel against me, after all the things I’ve taught you?! You’re embarrassing me in front of the board members!”

“I told you my wrist was tired, and you didn’t listen,” Wonwoo retorted. “I could’ve played the damn repertoire just to please you and save your reputation but I decided to save myself this time from permanently damaging my wrist. Was that too much to ask for you to cut me some slack? Are your guests more important than my well-being?! Just this one time, Dad--”

 “All I ever ask from you, Jeon Wonwoo, is to show nothing less than perfection. I don’t ask you to do that every day, just when we’re in public to display our talent, and you still beg me to be lenient on you?! Give me a break!” Mr. Jeon snatched Wonwoo’s tensed arm and squeezed the wrist, causing the young man to whimper some pain. His voice trembled, with eyes wide open, full of wrath. “Remember this: there’s my blood running through your veins. And as long as I live, you do as I say, understand?!”

“--D, dad, you’re hurting me--”

“From now on, I don’t want to hear you talking back to me every time I’m correcting your mistakes. I’ve made you who you are now so don’t forget your root!” Once he was done passing his warning, Mr.Jeon left the scene with a vicious heart. As soon as the old man’s silhouette disappeared in the corner, Wonwoo lost strength on his feet. He crouched down, arms wrapped around his upper body. In that moment, Wonwoo felt so small and unwanted. He wept in the gloomy room, nobody but his body and the agony. He could feel the fingertips digging into the skin of his forearms, the same part of his body that brought the music notes to life a while ago. The throbbing on his wrist subdued, nothing compared to the pain writhing inside.

Wonwoo stayed on his spot until he felt okay. His glasses turned foggy once he was able to control his breathing. He wiped off his nose with the back of his hand and pushed himself to stand up. At least he let out his despair tonight, Wonwoo told himself. _Thank you for being brave, self._  It’s time to go back to the table and acted as if nothing happened. 

But once he turned around, Wonwoo was aghast by the figure standing before him. Kim Mingyu was there, facing Wonwoo with a sullen expression; a face he had not witnessed that night. The man moved closer, caused Wonwoo to panic. His face was rose-colored, he could feel the sudden heat on his nape. Mingyu held onto Wonwoo’s injured wrist, yet sported a gentle and caring demeanor against the wound. 

“We should ice you up,” he suggested. 

*

The change of the luminosity in the room alarmed Wonwoo for a minute. Mingyu moved him from the dark alleyway to the room of fluorescent lights, hanging on the ceiling of the central kitchen where the staffs were busy walking back and forth to the stations at an agile pace, passing empty trays to fill it in with a new dish. Wonwoo occupied a table in the corner while Mingyu was pressing a cold compress against his wrist, sitting right in front of him. The event manager was kind enough to let them borrow a spot while keeping Wonwoo’s injury in a hush. He even provided the two with two cans of cold carbonated drink, which were an appreciated company during their stay. 

Wonwoo had unbuttoned the cuff and rolled it up to expose half of his bony arm, which only looked fairer under the light. He stayed still, with two foreign hands steadily held the stiffen joint with a bag filled with ice cubes pressed against it. The cold stung Wonwoo on the first second, but he began to relax the longer he stayed still. 

The stoves were on fire and the aroma of the well-cooked food entertained their nostrils, coming from a different side of the room. The sound of stainless steel equipment clinking in the background filled in the silence that hadn’t escaped their mouths. The amiable attitude Mingyu displayed on the first second they just met was nowhere to be found, replaced by a cold and distant mien. It seemed nothing more entertaining for him rather than Wonwoo’s swollen wrist.

“How long did you stay there?” Wonwoo threw the question since the lull was unnerving. He was sure it was not a coincidence that Mingyu happened to show up from behind the walls earlier. Out of people Wonwoo had known in life, it had to be Mingyu who was there, a stranger witnessing his moment of weakness. The man in Wonwoo’s mind looked up, but soon averting his eyes back to the wrist. He knew there was an elephant in the room, but seemed to refuse to address it. Wonwoo had nothing to lose whether Mingyu decided to be honest or not, but he needed to know if he could be trusted. “Did you listen to all of it?”

“What do you mean?” Mingyu questioned back, playing dumb. Although, his earlobes were far from being dishonest with the appearance of faint crimson color formed thoroughly to the edges, which Wonwoo interpreted as his defense by telling a lie.  “I’m sorry,” Mingyu said, at last. His husky voice made Wonwoo jumped a little on his seat. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation with your dad. I saw you holding on your wrist once you’re done performing and I assumed you were hurt. So, I followed you. In case you need help.”

“...Why would you do that?”

Mingyu looked at Wonwoo with a frown.

“Not the eavesdropping part. But this,” Wonwoo’s eyes pointed at his iced wrist. 

Mingyu flashed a smile. “Let’s say that I somewhat experienced something similar to this. But in my case, it was too late to fix things. You’re a pianist. Your hands are the assets that require full attention. Instead of getting worked up over whether your colleagues care about your son’s credibility, I think your hands need the most attention for a long-term career.” 

Wonwoo held back his laughter into his fist. He was not supposed to, but listening to someone throwing a jab to his father’s attitude was surprisingly funny. “So you listened that much.”

“The wall’s too thin,” Mingyu excused. His ears were now bright red. 

After keeping the wrist cold for a while, Mingyu pulled the ice bag away while Wonwoo stretched to see if there were any stiffness remained. He thanked him for the kindness and assured Mingyu he would book an appointment with his doctor tomorrow. “Also, don’t be sorry about what you did behind the wall. There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Wonwoo added as he rolled down his sleeve. 

Mingyu chuckled. “That’s the second time you said that to me tonight.”


End file.
